


Castles Crumbling

by Val_Creative



Series: Warlock & His Dollophead [18]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Modern Era, Prophetic Visions, Reincarnation, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur rose from an enchanted sleep, nearly two thousand years older, with his memories intact and his wounds healed, coughing up lake water—he believed the worst of it was behind him and Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castles Crumbling

**Author's Note:**

> (A very special thank you to my friends on Skype who encouraged this on, even when I was whining, and The Merlin Family as well as The Warlock and His King Network on Tumblr for being a wonderfully excitable bunch ❤ ❤ ❤ )
> 
>  
> 
> Day #18: "morning lazy sex"

*

 

When Arthur rose from an enchanted sleep, nearly two thousand years older, with his memories intact and his wounds healed, coughing up lake water—he believed the worst of it was behind him and Merlin.

The very knowledge Merlin had been _waiting_ for him, all this time, not a grey hair to be seen and capable of youthful, dimpled smiles…

It was incredible circumstances.

Arthur understands this is magic. Allowing Merlin an eternal soul and appearance. It's the earth's magic _inside_ Merlin flourishing and heady and he isn't afraid of it. Not anymore.

But sometimes he is afraid _for_ Merlin.

That unbridled power. How much Merlin needs to be in control.

Even more unnerving, how the modern age hardly believes it existed. Arthur tries his best to digest it, surrounded by dust and books, having sunk into one of the threadbare chaises in Merlin's secreted library.

"How could they not know about sorcery?" he asks, feeling hollow.

 _Witch Hunts: A Graphic History of the Burning Times_ lands thumping at Arthur's socked feet. A grotesque caricature of a woman on its cover. Her face bubbling and melting off its bones, shaded in yellows and red.

"It doesn't matter," Merlin whispers, teeth displaying, his face more gaunt and bitter than Arthur thinks he recognizes.

 

*

 

They're not sure what caused it.

Arthur doesn't want to blame himself, blame his return on the flood of emotional impact to Merlin's well-adjusted life in… the _United_ Kingdom.

But it's magic. It's always magic that gives them solace and discord.

Merlin's there with him, and then he isn't.

He's crumpling sideways to the ground, the dinner utensils clattering loudly. Merlin's eyes rolling and jerking to the back of his skull—and Arthur has never been more terrified for someone in his— _this_ life now.

 

*

 

The first seizure, unexpected and volatile, contributes a vision of Arthur's motorcycle shredding to pieces during a massive highway wreckage.

When the rest of the convulsions pass, Arthur watches him go unresponsive, unable to help as Merlin's head lolls backwards on Arthur's shoulder. He gently rubs Merlin's knuckles with his thumb, grasping his hand tightly, crouched and praying for him to recover.

 

*

 

Arthur's prayers thankfully do not go unanswered.

He discovers Merlin waking slowly in their bed, stretching out muscles, wrapping an arm reverently to both of Arthur's clasping his middle.

"G'morning," Arthur murmurs, planting little kisses to the dampened, hair-prickled nape of Merlin's neck in front of him. He smiles at the tired whine.

" _A'thurr, nnh_."

"It astounds me how useless you can be, Merlin."

A leg hooks through Arthur's, kicking slightly.

Merlin turns, yawning softly into a pillow, a warm hand on Arthur's. "That's my line," he replies.

Arthur doesn't wish to shatter the moment, to ask what Merlin remembers, when he know _he has to_ eventually.

He forgoes the decision awhile, hearing Merlin squeak when Arthur pins Merlin's wrists, pushing their weight level to the mattress. He noses Merlin's temple, down over one of his ears, and flattens his tongue against a vein. Arthur sucks rough, wet kisses on his neck, mindful of the warlock's breathing, of his erection stirring to Arthur's thigh.

Merlin's flesh pinches so nicely, darkened purple with blood.

The man underneath him arches and groans for something quick and filthy, like most of their early morning tumbles. But no avail, as Arthur lays with him, working their bare cocks in one hand, holding Merlin's head close enough to smush their nose and taste guttural kisses.

Before anything can mask it, food or mouthwash or even Arthur, he can taste the sharp, atmospheric current; something not tangible to him—but something that _pulses_ alive and halcyon between Merlin's jaws.

 

*

 

"You're staying and helping me organize the cabinets," Merlin tells him on the couch. The kind of robotic voice indicating no argument.

Arthur doesn't listen; he never listens to Merlin. The telly's on. He's irritated that Merlin thinks he can lord over his decisions, and begins a heated argument before he notices the other man burst into tears.

They only half-listen to the filming broadcast of a chaotic vehicle pile-up.

 

*

 

In a couple days, and the fourth seizure, Merlin fills their cramped kitchenette with the scent of brewed groundsel and mugwort.

He doesn't tell Arthur it is natural herbs used for anticonvulsants, but it's obvious.

Arthur's not certain he can stomach another violent fit. Not worrying in silence about _what if now_ and _or now_ when they're in public. Not holding onto Merlin vulnerable body and swallowing the thick clog of dread.

Merlin trembles and sweats so much. As if he had been lying on coals, baking in the flames. When Arthur touches him, he flinches, sore.

No living human being can manage to suffer this temperature spike.

Lucky for them, Merlin barely qualifies as human now.

 

*

 

It's routine. Merlin's smelly herbs. Arthur's worrying.

 

*

 

"M'not a bloody prophet," he mutters, stabbing at the toast on his plate.

Frowning grimly, Arthur unfolds the newspaper and holds it out. He pulls off his reading glasses, saying nothing at Merlin's look of revolted awe.

 

*

 

The herbs ease Merlin's condition, despite their pungent stench.

 

*

 

"I want to take you flying."

Arthur has never been on a plane before, and was disinclined on venturing into practical application. Horses and carts were means of transportation as far as Arthur knew, not gigantic flying machines.

He wasn't entirely against modern-age transport.

Merlin _had_ bought Arthur his red, black and gold motorcycle, relieved that it wasn't quite as complicated to maneuver as Merlin ridiculed him about.

Not only that, Merlin could have a fit _on_ the damned plane—

"We'll go see Camelot, together," Merlin says quietly next to him, features solemn when Arthur's head rises, and he stares openly.

"… Arthur, would you like that?"

"I don't know, Merlin," he answers, honestly. But Arthur's heart soars.

 

*

 

The single plane ticket remains fisted in his hands.

 

*

 

Arthur's kingdom is trampled, dead grass and mud and silence.

But Merlin's smile dimples, and there's not a grey hair to be seen, and Arthur kisses him right where the throne room used to be.

Hoping the ghosts of their pasts feel an echo of the same love he does.

 

*


End file.
